


can't stop a hurricane

by bigbootyborgias (grimgrace)



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 14:16:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1307818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimgrace/pseuds/bigbootyborgias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Her husband loves her. He is a passive man, at his heart, happy to avoid the loud action that so often disrupts Paris’ streets, but he is a sweet man also. And she is lucky, so lucky, to have found a man like that; not only a husband that appreciates her, but a husband that respects her. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>And yet, there is something so new, so different to be found in d’Artagnan’s embrace that any thoughts of her husband flee her mind. </i>
</p><p>//</p><p>A follow up, if you will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	can't stop a hurricane

She knows what it is to be loved.

 

Her husband loves her. She feels it in the way his gaze settles in the morning, soft and fond and quiet, and the words he presses into her skin when they make love. He is a passive man, at his heart, happy to run their home from behind the scenes and avoid the loud action that so often disrupts Paris’ streets, but he is a sweet man also. And she is lucky, so lucky, to have found a man like that; not only a husband that appreciates her, but a husband that respects her.

 

And yet, there is something so new, so different to be found in D’Artagnan’s embrace that any thoughts of her husband flee her mind.

 

It’s passion, she thinks. Hot and vicious and all consuming, it catches her as soon as his lips touch hers. His hands on her waist send her heart beating at double speed, setting every nerve alight like a sparking firecracker. It makes her breath quicken and her body desperate, more desperate than she’s ever been with a man.

 

Her hands come up of their own accord to grasp at him, to pull him closer.

 

She doesn’t register the plates and knives falling to the ground, doesn’t notice the way their urgent bodies disrupt the pleasant cleanliness of the room. Only the feeling of his hands at her waist, the soft arch of his neck where he leans to meet her lips fully.

 

This is what it is to be consumed, she thinks.

 

Her body doesn’t react to desire with any amount of dignity. Soft noises, whimpers, spill from her lips without permission as her hands tangle in his hair. He pushes ever closer, crowding her between his body and the table first, then the wall.

 

She’d once scoffed at stories of couples that could stand together and kiss for hours – but her scepticism seems suddenly stupid. She doesn’t know what it would be like to kiss him so thoroughly, to hold him against her for so long – but she finds that she longs to learn. To learn every inch of his face, of his body and to consider how well it fits with hers.

 

She would have started learning then and there if it weren’t for the crunch of gravel from outside.

 

It’s odd that she’d found it so easy to block out every and any outside noise, save for the sound of her husband returning home. They both freeze, his lips suddenly still against her neck. His back is to the kitchen door, but she can see clearly over his shoulder. 

 

The door scrapes open and she realises that D’Artagnan’s fingers are still tangled in the front strings of her dress.

 

Her husband is a shorter man – only taller than her by a couple of inches, but smaller than D’Artagnan by a foot or so. Although stockier he lacks the confidence in his step that Constance has noticed in D’Artagnan – as well as the other Musketeers. Where Aramis and Porthos and Athos walk with their heads head high, swords strapped to their hip and blue cloaks over one shoulder – her husband walks with his eyes on his feet and a basket of eggs and bread on his arm.

 

It’s the eggs that save them. Her husband’s head is bowed as he walks into view, through the front door and past the entrance to the kitchen. His brow is furrowed as the studies the contents of his basket, muttering softly under his breath – counting the eggs, perhaps.

 

She isn’t sure – won’t ever be sure – but whatever the task is that occupies his attention, it’s enough to keep his gaze down. Not once does he look up and glance casually to his left – where his wife and his tenant’s sin is plain as day. He doesn’t look and see D’Artagnan’s shirt half opened, his wife’s skirt ruffled or the ruined kitchen that was privy to their passion. He just counts the eggs, heads deeper into the house and then all the way up the stairs.

 

She relaxes a little when she hears his feet hit the first floor, but there is only one blissful second of relief before her guilt comes crashing down.

 

D’Artagnan can see it in her eyes, she knows. Something guarded creeps onto his face, soft still but prepared – and she can see it as he too realises the full details of what has just happened.

 

Her marriage vows are broken. Before God, and almost before her husband. She has been unfaithful. He has coveted another man’s wife.

 

She rocks back down to flat feet, pulling away from him. His arms on her waist let her go easily, but still his touch leaves a searing heat through her clothes.

 

They watch each other silently for a minute. There’s no blame in his eyes, no smugness either. He doesn’t look like she’d imagined a man might, when coming between a wife and her husband. In fact, he looks almost as ashamed as she feels – eyes wide and worried, lips swollen and red from her kisses.

 

“I – ” he begins, voice cracking over the single syllable. There is a pregnant pause as he stops, just staring for another moment longer. He seems to find his words in the next moment though, and they come tumbling out of his mouth in a panic. “I’m sorry, Constance, I’m – I shouldn’t have done that.”

 

She shakes her head mutely for a minute. Her hand comes up to touch at her own lips, probably in a similar state to his. She can still feel his kisses on her neck, his fingers in her hair and it would be a lie of every kind to say that she doesn’t want to know that feeling again.

 

“No,” she says, when her voice finally comes to her. “You shouldn’t have.” Shame flicks across his features and his skin reddens a little at the neck and cheeks, so she hastily continues. “ _We_ shouldn’t have,” she amends. She won’t have him take the blame for this – for their shared weakness. “I’m just as much to blame as you.”

 

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

 

She flattens her hands across her skirt and looks away from him. She takes in the kitchen and the mess they left in their wake and feels a blush creeping up her own neck.

 

“I should clean this up,” she says.

 

He nods. “I’ll help.”

 

She glances at him again, affection swelling in the pit of her stomach that makes her feel a little sick. Of course he would offer to help. She’s only known him a few months and all he’s done is offered to help.

 

He is a brave, kind soul and she wants to kiss him again.

 

She puts up a hand as he steps closer, her fingers splaying out across his chest. She can see where his vest is still pulled open, the strings pulled at – and knowing that she is responsible makes her flush. He stops the second she touches him and looks down.

 

She doesn’t make the mistake of looking up. She’s sure if she meets his eyes, the last part of her restraint will be lost.

 

“Best not,” she says quietly, looking down at her feet instead of up at him. “You’ve had a busy day, it’s probably better if you go rest.”

 

She knows he would have protested under different circumstances. There’s certainly something to be said for the way he hesitates even now, his body pressing unconsciously against her hand as he considers arguing. But he knows her well enough to see the request for what it is – less for him, more for her – and relents.

 

“I’ll just go upstairs then, shall I?” he offers.

 

She nods and breathes a small sigh of relief. The smile that catches her features is soft. “Sounds like a wonderful idea,” she says, and he steps away from her. “Maybe see if my husband needs a hand with anything,” she suggests.

 

She’d meant it as an investigative tactic. Go see if he suspects anything, is what she means. He knows what she means, he always knows what she means – but she lifts her gaze to meet his eye and make sure nonetheless.

 

She was right. What a mistake it was to let her gaze meet his.

 

He looks soft and understanding and content. Nervous, a little, but happy. There’s a smile playing on his lips – lips that had so recently been on hers – and not a hint of hostility. He’s glad, glad for their kiss and glad that they can still understand each other so thoroughly afterward.

 

She has fallen quickly and completely and her body sings that that’s no returning from this.

 

* * *

More than anything she craves him now.

 

She had, of course, known what it was to kiss him. The first time they’d met it had been lips first, names second. And somehow still, after that, he’d managed to charm her. And several times after that he’d insisted on kissing her – on pretending she was his mistress while being followed.

 

She wonders how many of his reasons were more excuses, now that she knows he likes the taste of her on his tongue.

 

He loves her.

 

She cleans the kitchen completely. Everything has always had its place – but now when the kitchen is structured and neat, it feels like the room is keeping her secret. The following morning, when she serves her husband his breakfast, she can’t look up from the food without blushing slightly.

 

“You’re jumpy this morning,” he’d said fondly. “Did you sleep well last night?”

 

She shakes her head. “No,” she replies, because tiredness is as good an excuse as any – and this time it’s actually true. “I found myself a little distracted.”

 

There’s a thumping noise from the doorway and she and her husband look up to see D’Artagnan, having stumbled slightly at the threshold. The backs of his ears are red and she suddenly has no doubt that his imagination is running wild about her ‘distraction’.

 

His guesses are likely on point.

 

Her husband greets him with a joke – _careful now, you’ve got to be more graceful than that to be a Musketeer –_ and Constance moves, turning back to her pots and pans. In front of her husband the shame feels physical, like a heavy weight pressing down on her chest. She can hear D’Artagnan’s feet shuffling on the floor as he lingers in the doorway. Her husband is sitting, happy and content and blissfully unaware of their transgression.

 

It must affect D’Artagnan as much as it does her because he doesn’t hover too long. A meeting with Aramis, he begs off when her husband offers him a seat at the table – the same table where D’Artagnan had pressed against her so intimately.

 

She meets his gaze as he leaves this time again. He looks a little unsure in the light of day, but before he disappears through the door he shoots her a quiet smile.

 

* * *

Her husband has never made any huge point of attending church every Sunday. They pray, of course, before every meal and before sleep every night – but Sunday is a big one for the market and sometimes it’s easier to take advantage of the emptier streets and clean a little while everyone else is at worship. In fact, it’s something she’s done for so long that her husband seems almost surprised when she taps on his door Sunday morning and tells him she’s headed to the church.

 

Sunday is the one day he sleeps a little late, so he’s still a little dazed. “Really?” he asks.

 

The scepticism in his tone probably isn’t a great sign of how attending Church is going to go – or the state of her immortal soul, at that – but she just smiles and nods. “It’s important to get there when I can,” she says.

 

He accepts her reasons without dispute and heads back into his room with a quiet goodbye.

 

She walks past D’Artagnan’s room as she heads downstairs, but very pointedly does not knock on the door. Her husband dozes a little later on Sundays, but D’Artagnan is practically unreachable before noon. She has no business waking him, no reason to – and she’s happy to avoid him for a few hours more. Eventually they’ll speak about it, but she sees no reason why she can’t put it off a little longer.

 

She meets Fleur outside and they head in together. The service is long, but it lifts the weight off her chest a little. God forgives, she reminds herself. Once the service is over, she heads towards the confessional and only has to wait a few moments before she’s able to slip inside.

 

It’s dark and stuffy behind the curtain, and the weight suddenly returns full force.

 

“Hello, Father,” she greets the priest softly.

 

He murmurs his greeting quietly before inviting her to share her sins with him. She finds she can’t do it immediately, stumbles slightly as she starts.

 

“I’ve sinned, Father,” she says in a rush. “That is to say, I – well, I also seem to be in the process of sinning. I’m finding it hard to – keep control, I suppose. I’m sorry, the words are...”

 

The priest is calm, despite her confession. “Stay calm, child,” he says. “God has already witnessed your sin, and if you a steadfast in your desire for forgiveness, he will grant it to you.”

 

She nods her head shakily.

 

“Right,” she says. “Yes.”

 

“What is your sin?”

 

It’s still quite difficult to say. “Lust?” she says finally, more a question than an answer. “That is – I am married, Father, and yet I can’t help my eye wandering – or perhaps – I suppose it could be my heart – and it isn’t a stranger, no, he’s a friend – my closest friend, that is, and – well, he says he loves me.”

 

She finishes breathlessly, almost surprised to have spoken the words out in the open. God is surely judging harshly, she thinks, not to mention the priest.

 

“Father?” she says anxiously.

 

The priest lets out a soft sound, resignation and disappointment. “Taking another man into your marriage bed is a grave sin, indeed,” he says. “You have broken your vows to your husband, as well as to your Lord and saviour.”

 

It probably says something about her soul also that her first thought is indignant. “Hold on,” she says, too defensively for a confessional certainly, “it was only a kiss.”

 

The priest pauses. “You have yet to take this man as your lover?” he asks.

 

She feels annoyance swell in her and she scowls. “No!” she says vehemently, annoyed at the assumption. “Of course not, it’s a sin!”

 

She’s certain that her mother and father are laughing right now, if they can indeed witness this from heaven. How just like their daughter to lecture a priest on the laws of the Bible.

 

The priest hesitates for another moment, clearly surprised by the turn of events. But he recovers quickly enough. “Then you must remain steadfast, my child,” he says. “Keep your marriage vows unbroken, for the most part, and repent for the sins of your past.”

 

She still feels a little slighted, to be honest. Strange, considering the priest doesn’t know which of the many people in his congregation she is, but she has no trouble taking it personally.

 

“Right,” she says shortly.

 

“Five ‘Our Father’s’ and two ‘Hail Mary’s’,” the priest instructs. “And make sure to pray once a night before your sleep, and once when you wake up.” It’s a clear end to her confession, the kind of abrupt dismissal that she probably deserves. Still, she leaves the booth with her head held high.

 

She spends a while more with Fleur, walking around the market and chatting about Fleur’s father and her education. Constance makes sure to not let the conversation stray anywhere near her husband or D’Artagnan. Those problems were hard enough to talk about with a priest in a private booth while her face was hidden. And she’s certain that Fleur won’t say anything too harsh, but adultery is a sin that’s always harshly judged.

 

The mindless conversation helps for a while as they wander, but it’s all ripped rather abruptly away when D’Artagnan appears in front of them. He’s got a resolute expression on his face, an almost too cool smile that settles on his delicate features and makes her stomach drop. She knows that face – it’s the same one he’d worn before convincing her to pretend to be a prostitute, and after that a nanny.

 

“Oh no,” she can’t quite stop herself saying.

 

Fleur lets out a surprised laugh, like she can’t quite believe Constance just said that. D’Artagnan quirks a brow.

 

“A word?” he says, looking amused.

 

Fleur doesn’t even give Constance the chance to make an excuse. She just leans in and presses a kiss to Constance’s cheek, promising to see her Tuesday like they’d planned, and heads on down the street.

 

D’Artagnan doesn’t take his eyes away from Constance during the entire exchange. The weight of his gaze is a little heavier with Fleur’s absence and Constance finds herself suddenly very nervous. She shoots him a guilty smile.

 

“Sorry,” she says softly.

 

He rolls his eyes fondly and reaches for her. It’s only to tug lightly on her arm, pull him in the direction he wants to go, but the new contact makes her pulse jump. If he notices he doesn’t let on, just gently pulls on her arm and encourages her to walk behind him.

 

He doesn’t lead her far, just down a nearby alley. It’s not busy down here at all, compared to the bustling market streets. She swallows a little nervously.

 

“Listen...” she begins when he stops walking and turns to face her.

 

He cuts her off. “Constance,” he says over her. He leans forward a little, his hands resting on her shoulders and he looks her dead in the eye. “You’ve been avoiding me and we both know why – ”

 

“I haven’t been _avoiding_ you,” she tries to clarify.

 

“You went to Church this morning,” D’Artagnan says flatly, his eyebrow high again. “ _Church._ ”

 

“I go to church!” she says indignantly.

 

He shushes her, which definitely doesn’t do anything to improve her mood, and continues speaking. “I know you’re uncomfortable with what happened between us, with what I said to you.”

 

She scowled. “You don’t _know_ anything,” she protested.

 

He kept talking as though she’d never spoken at all.

 

“I just want to make it clear that you’ll have nothing to worry about. All I want is for you to be happy, because you deserve nothing less, and I won’t be the one to stand in the way of that,” he insists urgently. “If it makes things easier, I’ll find another place to live. This is a big city after all, and I would hate to hang around and create stress where you don’t need it.”

 

She goes to reply but again he has barely taken a breath before he’s continuing.

 

“You are an incredible, inspiring woman, Constance, and I refuse to be the one who douses all the light you have to offer to this city.”

 

He smiles softly when he says it, as though he hasn’t just knocked all the air out of her. Everything she’d been going to say vanishes from her head in the light of his announcement and for a second she can only gape.

 

He lets one of his hands rest on her neck for a moment, rubs his calloused thumb across the skin on her nape. For a minute it seems like he’s drinking in every aspect of his face, memorising it, saving it in his minds eyes, before he leans closer still and presses a kiss to her forehead.

 

“I’ve got to go,” he says when he pulls back. “Let me know what you decide.”

 

Then he pulls away completely. He’s vanished from the alley by the time she gets her breath back – and probably half way across Paris when she realises how angry he’s made her.

 

* * *

She doesn’t see him again for nearly three days. He’s always been good at sneaking in and out quietly, leaving before the sun rises and getting back long after it sets. She’s vigilant, but he seems to have picked up on at least some of her anger, and decided to avoid her.

 

Perhaps he’s trying to make it easier on her or something falsely chivalrous like that. How _dare_ he?

 

Still, he can’t hide forever.

 

Splitting time between watching for him and acting normally around her husband is difficult, but it’s made easier when her husband is called out of town on business. A contact of his was calling in a favour and needed him to ride out of Paris that night. Only a night or two, he’d assured her. He’d be back before the week was over.

 

She’d kissed him sweetly goodbye, letting the guilt swirl in her stomach to hide the heat of anticipation that had settled ever since she’d made her decision. Then she’d retired to her room.

 

D’Artagnan doesn’t arrive home until late, but she’s awake when he does. The soft scrape of his boots against the floorboards is the first she hears of it, then the light click of his bedroom door as he closes it behind him.

 

Moving from her room to his is easy. So easy, in fact, that when she opens his door (without knocking, oh, how her mother would have swooned), he is taken off guard. He’s sitting on the edge his bed, fiddling with the straps on his boots – and he looks up urgently at the sound of the door.

 

She is incredibly pleased to see the look of surprise that freezes on his face when he realises that it’s her.

 

“Constance?” he says, standing abruptly.  

 

She narrows her eyes.

 

“Do you know how many men I’ve caught eyeing me?” she asks him.

 

“– What?”

 

“Do you know how many men have come, just off the street, and asked me to consider them?” she continues, ignoring him as he’d ignored her previously. “Are you really so horrified by me that you think you’re the first young gentleman to show me any attention, aside from my husband?”

 

She walks closer to him, certainly glaring now.

 

“Do you really think that – ” she stumbles here for the first time, a blush creeping up her cheeks as she hesitates to find a word for their moment in the kitchen. “–That what _happened_ would have happened if I didn’t want it to?”

 

She ends with a dangerous bite to her voice, and standing dangerously close to him. She notices more from here, in the dark lamp light. He’s taken off his brown vest, and the white laces of his shirt have been loosened. She knows what it’s like to undo similar ties on her dresses at the end of the day, knows the relief that comes with being released from tight clothing – but imagining his fingers pulling at his own shirt, exhaustedly tugging it off his own shoulders – it makes her mouth a little dry.

 

He’s watching her carefully, leaning back a little without putting much space between them at all.

 

“Are you–?” he begins.

 

She interrupts him. She rather likes doing that, actually.

 

“If I want to kiss you,” she says with narrowed eyes, “then I’m going to kiss you. Do you understand me?”

 

He stares at her a second. Blinks more than once, a shocked, vacant look on his face.

 

“Do you mean–?”

 

He probably should have expected that she’d kiss him. After all, she’d been incredibly clear.

 

She fists her hand in his collar and tugs him towards her while pressing up on her toes. His taste is as striking as she remembers; the scratch of his stubble on her skin just as rough. He wastes no time in responding, gathering her up in his arms in a matter of seconds, settling his hands on her waist and pulling her in tight.

 

He is less enthusiastic in his bedroom than he was in the kitchen, gentler, more careful. Perhaps it’s out of respect for her, more stupidity about her feeling comfortable that she can’t help but feel touched by. Maybe he doesn’t want to press too hard in a room where something could actually happen, where a touch too scandalous could change the whole evening.

 

But despite the softer touch, he is equally as passionate. He kisses her as if to drink her in, to consume and possess every inch of her. His mouth is hot and wet on hers, his tongue a pleasant drag as he shifts to her neck, pressing kisses wherever he can reach.

 

“Are you sure?” he pants in her ear after a moment. “This is what you want?”

 

She bites rather harshly at the spot where his neck and shoulder meet. “Were you not just listening to a _thing_ I said?”

 

He chuckles. A part of her tries to file that away for later, to remember to be more direct so that he’s always sure of her motives – but at the same time as the thought enters her head, he’s moves his attention back to kissing her lips and she forgets without a moment’s notice.

 

“I love you, you know,” he murmurs against her mouth.

 

She can’t quite fight the smile, even though it must be unpleasant for him to kiss her teeth.

 

“I know,” she says softly. “You admire and respect me.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Unstructured and unedited and for that I apologise. I'll probably come back some time soon and give it a proper edit, but for now it's late and I really wanted to get this up and posted. I'm not as displeased as I usually am with this one, which is a good sign. Hopefully you guys like it just as much, if not more. 
> 
> Not wholly opposed to writing a smutty follow up, but I'll wait and see how you guys like this one before I get any ideas :P 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and check me out on Tumblr @ url: eisenbangme


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